Closer to things
by SomeCoolName
Summary: It's a case like any other. A body in the morgue to see -miles away from London- and nothing more. It's bothering Sherlock, so naturally they don't talk about it. -OS


Note: Hello everybody! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, I hope you'll like it.

Rating: T - angst like woa. Blanket and hot tea before reading are always a plus.

Beta-reader: Thanks for all the people who offered their help but extra thanks for **DarkLadySethra**, and extra-giga-billions of thanks for the amazing **PJTL156** who corrected the whole thing! All remaining mistakes are mine.

Reviews: well, yes please :3! Meanwhile, enjoy the reading.

* * *

"Do you want me to close the window?"

"What?"

Sherlock instinctively turns his head toward his roommate sitting to his left. They are not gone for ten minutes before the detective already seems to have his full acceptance capabilities. _Driving, boring_. 'He must feel,' thinks the doctor. Nonetheless, Sherlock is the one who took the car keys from Greg's hands before even thanking him. This mainly due to the fact that he did _not_ thank him.

John pinches his lip and pushes his finger on the plastic button on his left. The window closes gently and with it fresh air sweeps the smell of cigarette which disappears with laziness. Of course, Sherlock has not smoked for months and he holds on tight -like a pitbull tied to the neck of his favorite poodle. The fact remains that the doctor wants to avoid unnecessary temptation. Greg gave up; he will be the only one.

_Boring_, Sherlock would find it all _boring_. They had discussed the idea of taking the train, but once they arrive the use of a car will be essential. Greg immediately offered his own, and none of them had the decency to pretend to politely refuse.

This is a case like any other: A body in a morgue to see, and nothing more. At least, John tries to convince himself of this. He would have given anything to stay in Baker Street during this awful February, bitten by the driest winter. It doesn't snow -at least, that's something- but he knows Scotland suffers from a far more impetuous cold. The idea of going over there in the Vauxhall Astra is not very pleasant. He will get through, though. He lived through much worse. As for Sherlock, nothing is less certain.

He turns his head towards his roommate and watches him from the corner of his eye. His gloved hands clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road where cars, honks, and reckless cyclists are quite a mess. He is already bored; John cannot say how, but he knows it. Sherlock would probably reprimand him to speculate without evidence. Nonetheless, he _feels_ it. _How would a bored Sherlock Holmes drive_? wonders John. Would he just yell "Boring!" wildly, or would he plough into the first SUV to test the strength of their bumper during a frontal collision? Would he shut his eyes to study the probabilities of an accident for a thirty year old man momentarily blind? Would he jump right into the car and simply go to Scotland Yard and ask them for a case that would not require him to cross half of England? No, of course not, he is a reliable man.

"Do you want me to drive?" hastens to ask the doctor whose fantasies made him dizzy with a furious need to recite his _Hail Mary_ and _Our Father_ in a loop.

"Are you afraid when I'm driving?"

"Me? No..." smiles John, looking through the window at the two tourists they nearly knocked over.

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying, I'm-"

"You're lying, and I know you're lying because you stopped looking at me by turning your head, and you have this stupid laugh you feel obliged to regurgitate when you feel ill at ease."

The doctor's lips pinch so hard he's not sure he'll be able to open his mouth again.

"I know how to drive, John."

The detective's sentence is punctuated by the Ford Fiesta's thundering horn they nearly hit. Going through the red light was perhaps not a good idea.

* * *

_There are people who actually like this_, thinks Sherlock. His whole body is trapped in this steel cage, two long legs pressed against the plastic pedals, hands tied to the cylindrical object in front of him, staring in turns at the road, the dashboard, and the rear-view mirror, and _there are people who actually like this_.

He has the most remarkable intelligence on the West, East, South and North coast, and here he is driving Lestrade's car across the country, suffocated by the cold smell of cigarette and constant glances from his roommate. Oh sure, _Captain_ John Watson would have been thrilled to take the wheel, Sherlock has no doubt. This is exactly why he decided to drive.

Things are not... _optimal_, he would say. However, business is for the better since a few weeks ago. People still think that damn hat was his, but at least the murderers are more creative than before. Bodies are not as recognizable, fingerprints are truncated: the Game is on. But John seems stuck on this Christmas case. On this Woman.

There was Irene and then there was life, her enemy. She arrived, left, and everything is now back in its unmanageable and chaotic order. There was no other choice anyway. At least her head is still on her shoulders (which is much prettier that way, even the _virgin_ can say so). John and Mycroft do not need to know nonetheless. Because what would John say? Would he be happy to learn that Sherlock has saved someone's life? Would he be amazed, once again, by not having discovered that his roommate had disappeared for 72 hours? Would he drown him under hundreds of pedantic compliments for this smoothly handled case?

No, John would be angry, disappointed, sad, and even jealous. Sherlock still has much to learn about human relationships, but John's attitude in the presence of the Woman was the easiest to decipher. When the detective only saw Cartier earrings and red lipstick applied fourteen minutes earlier by an external assistance (a woman, given the precision of the brush on the lower lip), John only saw BoobsBreastsNipplesBoobsBoobs_Boobs_. When Sherlock only saw the Woman's disproportionate commitment to her phone, John only saw the (_absurd, really_) hypothesis of a sexual act with reproductive purposes, that after nine months would have resulted in a new entity named Hamish.

_Hamish, really? John, you hate that name. Make the slightest effort to hide your jealousy, you're becoming boring by being so easy to decipher._

"It's your phone."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock glances at his roommate, but he's passing a truck, so his gaze immediately goes back to the road.

"It's your phone that rang. And this time _I'm_ the one deciding to take it from your pocket."

"Nonsense, John, I can properly –"

The hand he's pulling apart from the wheel is violently hit by the doctor's. Immediate surrender.

"No; you, you drive."

_Alright, Captain Watson, _thinks Sherlock, rolling his eyes so high they could turn around in his orbits completely.

The doctor's hand barely hesitates and slips into the long black coat the detective didn't even remove. He doesn't need to see where he slips his fingers; he has done it a hundred times under the youngest's orders. Being the one to make such a decision seems to offer him an absurd pride.

_Well, John, if you like to get close to me this much, please remind me to ignore all the texts I'll be receiving. _

His roommate clears his throat and presses his fingers on the screen to read the message.

"It's Gregory."

No answer.

"Lestrade," he adds.

"Oh, what does he want?"

"He wants to know how it's going."

"Tell him we hit a wild boar and his Auxhall Fiesta is totaled."

"It's a _Vauxhall Astra _and there's - never mind," sighs the oldest man, shaking his head. "I don't think he's talking about the car."

"Tell him everything is okay."

"Then he'll assume something is _not_ okay."

"Tell him I don't need a chaperon."

Sherlock turns his head and plunges his piercing gaze on his friend's. Evoking the past time of detox always dives John into an opportune silence. Sherlock knows it, that's why he said it. He focuses on the road again and from the corner of his eye he sees the doctor's nimble fingers moving over his phone. No matter what Lestrade thinks, everything _is_ okay.

* * *

For a football fan, John feels a little ashamed of never having visited the city of Manchester. This task is now completed even if it is 10:30 p.m. and that everything he'll see will be the hotel's bedding and the small chocolate on his pillow. They could have stayed in a roadside motel, but the simple idea made John sick, and Sherlock had an overwhelming desire to tell him all the murders committed in such motels those past six years. Thanks, but no way.

John booked two single rooms on the way. The hotel, chosen by the detective, is actually quite chic, with a pretty receptionist and nice decoration. They take their keys and go up together, seeing as John failed to find the right words to please the pretty brunette. With Sherlock around, he just can't seduce. Yes, he's a pleasant man; he's not the one who says so, but he's heard it enough to believe it.

Of course, there are handsome men- tall, mysterious, with blue scarves and ridiculous cheekbones who return a woman's heart in a snap of a sharp tongue, and then there are the others- small, timid and paunchy; those who are described as "nice" for want of "hot." John is one of those. Nobody looks at him in the street, nobody blushes when he winks (they'd more likely ask if something itches him), but he is _adorable_, and if _adorable_ allows him to spend _pleasant_ nights with _appreciable_ women, so be it.

He goes into his room, visits it in only a few strides and goes out again in the corridor where Sherlock is already standing, hands in his big black coat pockets. They look at each other and smile politely. It does not have the charm of Baker Street, but there was no way they could have driven during the night - John is still not even sure Sherlock has his driving license.

"Do you want something to eat?" suggests the doctor, clenching his fists mechanically, his nose pointed towards his roommate mounted on stilts.

Sherlock looks at him, squints, and John must sink his nails stronger in his palms to remember not to hit his forehead, realizing his stupid remark.

"Of course not, _waste of time_, my mistake. Do I wake you up at 8 tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Will you be okay?"

"I've slept alone in a hotel room, John, I know the mechanics. I have to empty every whisky bottle from the mini-bar into the sink, buy the pornographic movies and turn up the volume to its maximum, burn the sheets, and steal all the guest soaps."

"Fine. Goodnight then."

He goes back to his bedroom, but sticks his head in to hold Sherlock's attention before he disappears on his side.

"Do take the guest soaps, we're out of them."

"That's what I was about to do, John."

John is practically certain Sherlock's smile meant _Goodnight_.

* * *

_Something to eat_. John's words are turning in a loop in Sherlock's mind, like a dog running after his tail -even if he's fairly certain the doctor wouldn't like to be compared to a quadruped. It's annoying when it's happening -when John's words are stuck in his hard drive- like he has made too many copies of this information, and in the end he doesn't know which file he put them in to be able to clear them off.

There are some in the _Recent Elements_ file, copied, erased. There are some in the _Useless Informations_ file emptied at every entry. There are some in the _John Watson_ file, and the _John Watson_ file is actually under construction. Information arrives in this file by the thousands every day, erases themselves, and complete each other or bump into each other, which often disrupts the hard drive. He tries to erase the _Something to eat _copy, but the file resists. He'll try again later.

Maybe the tub is larger than in Baker Street and will allow him to soak both his feet _and_ back.

Water runs loudly in the small room. It is already hot, and fog invades the mirror in which he scrutinizes himself.

_Ridiculous cheekbones_, repeats the voice of the Woman. The _Irene Adler_ file is neatly tidied. Many are available, depending on the information evolutions (for example, the _Mycroft_ file has a three star priority when he sends him a new case, or comes close to the trash when he asks him to take Father and Mother to go see Les Mis). The Woman's file is sealed and locked. There will be no other information to add; you can only see it without being able to make any changes. In this file, there is everything, literally. Measurements, texts he never replied to, the connection with Moriarty, the last known address in Hanoi, and the _feelings_. Sherlock was so disappointed when they appeared in her. One misstep, one mistake and all that was making Irene _her_ made Irene become like _them_. The others. All the others.

He immerses himself naked in the hot water and smiles. His toes and shoulders are under water _at the same time_. Everything is so perfect he could cry.

* * *

It was not the best sandwich in the world –it had an aftertaste of dill- but John was so hungry that even Aunt Astrid's creamed salmon would have made him cry tears of happiness.

The receptionist had finished her turn and was replaced by a much less attractive, older version of Olivia Newton-John.

He goes back to his room while pulling on the sleeves of his jumper.

Lying on his bed, eyes vaguely on the TV screen, he wonders if he shouldn't have chosen the goat cheese sandwich. Or maybe he should have visited the next-door Tesco's. Maybe he should have insisted that Sherlock eat so both of them could have eaten at the Manchester Angelo's. With their luck the guy eating next to them would have been the new Jack the Ripper and they would have been on a new case before the bread basket was placed on the table.

His back falls heavily on the mattress and bounces slightly. Wouldn't it be better to have a case that would prevent them from going to Skye? Shit, that wasn't good. Sherlock was rubbing off on him.

Sherlock. _Sherlock_ freaking _Holmes_. World's only consulting detective, collector of varieties of tobacco, sociopath in his spare time (more exactly at the stroke of 3 a.m. when his violin seems to be his only way to communicate), and great criminologist. In short, his roommate. John pinches his nose and closes his eyes. Everything was fine, though, if you forgot the taxi driver serial killer and the Big Bad Wolf wrapped in a Westwood costume. So, yes, Sherlock was weird, definitely, but there was something on this earth that made the two of them get along.

And then there was Christmas, which could have been a holiday like any another (with a wry Sherlock and a slightly drunk Mrs. Hudson) if there hadn't been Irene Adler. He wasn't sure what was the most dangerous, between the phone and her long legs. However, it is certain that Irene Adler came and knocked down everything. So much happened during that period that John doesn't even know what to think anymore about all this. There was her death (the first; the fake one), and Sherlock's breakdown (whatever he may think, it definitely was one), then her _miraculous_ return (John scowls with irony with the mere mention of the word), and the meeting Mycroft-style in the abandoned factory.

_I'm not gay_. But how many times should he repeat this?

_Well I am, and look at us both._

John was not sure what that last sentence meant, though.

John opens his eyes and inhales, as if he has forgotten how to. It's simple, however, to provide oxygen to the body and to remove CO2 expiration from the alveoli in the lungs due to the difference in pressure between the two sides (since gas flows from the more concentrated medium to the less concentrated). But when he thinks about this woman, even if he knows she's dead and six feet under, anger is too deep for his usual empathy, so it comes back like a mad dog biting his chest with large doses of memories.

Because nobody touches Sherlock Holmes. Whether using a red dot dancing on his forehead or a manicured hand. John pricks up his ear and realizes he can hear him through the wall. He doesn't hear the exact words but he understands that he speaks. No answer. Sherlock's talking on the phone. Lestrade perhaps? No matter what the two men say, they do care for each other.

John removes his shoes without using his hands. His body goes along the headboard and he closes his eyes. Even when Sherlock doesn't come to talk to him at midnight about his latest findings on the case John seeks his voice.

_Bollocks_.

* * *

It's not a very complicated process to wake up, but strangely this morning Sherlock fights against each one of his limbs to extract himself off the bed and to go open the door someone's been knocking on. _Unnecessary and slow body_, he thinks while his foot is struggling to find the soft carpet. The path to the entrance is not without pitfalls (why would anyone install a coffee table _here_ when it could have been _there_?) but eventually his hand lands on the cold latch and John appears in front of him. Where does he find those jumpers?

"John?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"No."

"Noon. Shit, it's noon. We slept twelve hours, Sherlock, we have to go."

Noon. Well, that hadn't happened in a long time. No need to ask John; he's ready to jump in the Auxhall Fiesta in a sec. Sherlock nods to make him enter his bedroom and leaves him there while he's getting dressed in the bathroom. To leave this well-proportioned bathtub is heartbreaking. So that's what mothers feel when they abandon their child.

His shirt buttoned and his coat on his shoulders, he goes back to the doctor. John's standing in the middle of the room, body oriented toward the undone bed.

Sherlock's habitual sleep rhythm is not particularly interesting, but last night he's not sure he didn't turn clockwise tirelessly until he creased every inch of the sheets he was under and above. John seems to share this observation, and both of them losing time for something so pointless is an aberration.

"I'm ready."

'Yeah. I mean, okay."

They take the elevator and go to the reception to pay. The brunette is back. She slightly smells like alcohol and she still has some ink on the back of her hand with the logo of a famous club in Manchester. _Sorry, John, she's way too young for you._

"150£," she says, and John seems to suffocate while coughing.

He gives his credit card all the same and fixes it with a dark look as if he's trying to intimidate it. There's something about this credit card that always gives shivers to John, and Sherlock doesn't like it. Especially when he knows what he's about to say next.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

He's ready to put it back with the receipt in his wallet.

"Can I borrow your credit card?"

He doesn't seem happy about it; he even looks like he forgot how to close his mouth. Sherlock forgot his wallet. His free hand rubs his forehead, his smile seems to require a heightened effort, but he turns around again to the brunette and pays the second bedroom anyway. He almost cried when he saw the sign "Self-serve buffet – CLOSED".

The Auxhall Fiesta still smells of cigarettes, and Sherlock asks himself if it wouldn't be more practical to buy a packet, because he's very close to setting a seat on fire to try to smoke it.

"There's a cigarette-lighter in a car, right, John?"

"It's called a cigar-lighter, but yes. Why?"

"Good to know."

"Don't you remember that from your driving lessons?"

Sherlock doesn't answer -_driving lessons_? He'll have to check that data on Google later.

They leave the underground parking and discover a city steeped in a cold light. Lazy cars, docile pedestrians; London didn't influence the rest of the country. John seems more at ease with Sherlock's driving. His hand joints aren't white anymore, by dint of holding on tight to the armrest. He doesn't think about it because he thinks about something else. His lips start to open and close without delivering a single word. He's about to give in. _Three, two, one_...

"Sleep well?"

_Predictable._

"Slept well," confirms the detective, following the sign that leads them to the highway.

"Good."

"Yes, the hotel was good." And even if Sherlock doesn't like to waste energy by formulate futilities, he feels like he must reassure John.

"150£ for one night..."

"Did you see the bathtub length?"

Sherlock overtakes the delivery truck on his left but John seems mostly shocked by his claim.

"Did you choose it because of their sodding bathtub length?!"

"You can't understand what it feels like to take a bath in a small bathtub, John. You have a ridiculously inferior height; you don't have that kind of problem."

"I have a very reasonable size."

"What does reason have to do with anything?" asks Sherlock while looking at him.

"Well, if I fall I'm closer to the ground. It would hurt less than to a man mounted on stilts."

Sherlock frowns but it's another element from his face that itches him, so he stretches out his mouth and smiles. John's remarks are always surprising. Funny and absolutely absurd, but surprising.

"If you fall, I'll catch you, John."

It's so evident Sherlock wonders why he said it out loud, but judging by the look on the doctor's face, it's a good thing he did: it didn't seem clear to everyone. His roommate's lips open again, but he closes them before turning his face. He'll not talk for a while.

* * *

When John is sleeping at the end of the afternoon, his head twisted against the window, he's dreaming about a giant credit card laying down on him like a gigantic hound with a nameless cruelty. He wakes up just in time to realize he started to dribble on the seatbelt, and Sherlock is reading his mobile with an extreme concentration.

"For God's sake, the road, Sherlock!"

He hadn't screamed like that in so long that his vocal cords seemed to yell with pain.

The younger man jumps with surprise and lets his phone fell between his legs while his hand lies flat on the wheel to violently turn it. The car they brush past blows his horn to a point that they're not sure their eardrums aren't going to explode, and the truck that pulls up short behind them makes them realize their heads nearly got embedded into the dashboard.

"Okay, enough now. Pull over, I'm taking the wheel," shouts John, already pulling off his seatbelt.

"Unnecessary. Could you pick up my mobile?"

He lowers his head and sees the phone at his roommate's feet. Does he have any idea in which position John will have to bend himself to be able to do so? He hopes not.

"No way, pull over."

His voice is firm, Afghan spices tickle his nostrils.

"My mobile, concerning the case- Lestrade says-"

"Holy fuck, pull over _now_, Sherlock!" he screams again, but this time Sherlock's soul jumps with surprise.

Their bodies are shivering still since they nearly hit the car -and the truck- but it's the first time the detective's damn mouth is finally closed.

They stop on a motorway rest area, complete with picnic tables and never-emptied outside bins, but John barely notices them, he's already out of the car. He turns around and forces the opening of Sherlock's car door. He's still sitting, his gaze looking at his feet like a guilty kid.

"Get out."

"Are you going to leave me here?" asks the freaked out voice, deep as a tenor's.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you here, you're not a dog. Get in the passenger side and - oh screw it, go sit behind me, I don't want to see you anymore."

John is certain his friend isn't an Irish setter, yet he snaps his fingers while pointing to the backseat. The order works because the little 6'00" soldier complies without batting an eyelid. The trip is quickly back on, but John must pull up the seat to the wheel first (damn, _damn_ your long legs) before they leave the area. The speed limit is engraved in John's mind, but, oh how he would like to crush the accelerator pedal. He overtakes vehicles, weaves in and out, grunts between his closed teeth; his roommate's attitude and this bloody trip are enough reasons to make him want to shout. He yields after five miles, eyes glazed at the rear-view mirror; Sherlock's back in his black coat and sulking like a kid.

"Oh, please, _do_ grow up."

The answer comes as a flare of his nostrils and John is convinced that if he were a dragon smoke would come out of them. Oh, how this pride makes him want to organize a meeting with Sherlock and his fist, stronger than ever.

"What's wrong with you? You're sulking because I took the wheel? You were texting while driving on the highway, Sherlock. You can't blame me for making both of us stay alive."

Still no answer. The eyes as blue as the moon itself stare at the window, his mouth tenses to hold onto words like _Dull, stupid little John_ and other joys the soldier knows well enough.

"Whether you want it or not, we're going to this damn island."

John barely finishes his sentence before his seat topples over, making him slam on the brakes, and even if fear overruns his stomach and head like the worst hurricane, the reflexes that got him back from Afghanistan allow him to steer the car to the roadside before they hit another car. It's Sherlock who kicked the back of the seat with his foot and John knows it very well. With shaking hands, he pulls out his seatbelt and turns around to face up to his misleading friend.

"So that's your problem then?! You don't want to go! Well, you know what, Sherlock? I don't wanna go either. I'd have loved to stay at Baker Street, I'd have loved that none of this ever happened. But what's done is done and we don't have a choice, do you understand? So, my _dear _and impossible roommate, I'm asking you for the last time: do you want to talk about it?"

The look he's scrutinizing is not a child's; the boredom gave away to a silent storm, intangible but oh so very expressive.

"No."

The word cracks in the air like thunder and John knows he must go back inside to protect himself before being messily hit. But he explores the hurricane by his gaze for a few more seconds without getting to express all those things he knows a friend should be able to say. But he just can't do it. He turns around, puts his seatbelt back on and says with a neutral voice:

"Come sit next to me."

* * *

Balloch isn't the prettiest city in the word, but it's not the kind of detail Sherlock's interested in, so that's okay. He didn't say a word after John asked him if he wanted to talk about it; obviously, no, he _didn't want_ to talk about it because he _couldn't_. He _couldn't _because there was _nothing_ to say anyway. This trip is useless. Really. It's a waste of time, a gigantic joke to which he agreed to take part for John, Lestrade, and those non-stop clients that were asking him to come. So they have to go to the Isle of Skye before Wednesday, no matter if there's no killer to chase.

Yet John seems firmly convinced and Sherlock doesn't dare to tell him it's unnecessary; he feels like it'll piss off his friend more than ever. This time, he lets him choose the hotel, because the one he booked didn't seem to be to John's liking (even though four stars are enough for a lot of people). So he doesn't say a word when the doctor pulls over to check an address on his mobile, even if he knows the city by heart. He doesn't say anything, either, when John takes the direction to the Lomond lake they're driving along before turning onto a little country lane that leads them to a two-story timbering house. The "Bed & Breakfast" sign is almost entirely covered by the fir tree branch on which it's nailed.

People are coming out one after another and the detective makes sure he's as small as his 6 feet allow him. The woman that welcomes them, with excessive red hair and burgundy-colored nails, talks to John as if he's a member of her family. She seems grumpy about the fact that they didn't book a room, but leaning over her laptop, she changes her mind by offering them the last room. Double bed. The words make John roll his eyes. He clenches his fists, swings on his feelings, and discreetly sighs. He insists to have another bedroom, she insists he can't because she doesn't have another one, he insists again by telling her two beds would really be more appropriate, she insists still by telling him about the trout fishing contest at Lomond Lake. Apparently they're lucky to even find a place to stay.

So, they'll sleep in the same bed thanks to some trout with a life expectancy shortened by a massive, insecure Scottish fishermen incoming. _Interesting_, thinks Sherlock while following them to the first floor, at the end of the corridor where the bedroom is. He doesn't know a thing about decoration, that's obvious, be he's not sure the three teddy-bears on the bed are really necessary. John catches the keys as if he's holding the eye Sherlock's keeping in the toaster between his fingers, and says farewell to the owner before she disappears behind the shut door.

With just the two of them everything is even weirder.

"Yep, that's it; I'm sleeping on the floor."

"If you wish," answers Sherlock, already seated on the bedside, testing how soft it is by basically bouncing.

"What do you mean _if I wish_? Sherlock, people already talk a lot. We're not going to sleep in the same bed."

"People. You always talk about people. Why do you bother?"

"You don't know what it's like to have awful things said about you."

Sherlock clenches his lips, stares at the ceiling, and thinks out loud.

"Well, people say I'm a sociopath that gets off on crime scenes; that one day, dead by boredom, I'll commit myself a murder to pass the time; that I can't feel the tiniest emotion; and that I'm a freak. Tell me, John, does that seem awful enough for you?"

His eyes, as bright as his genius is dark, land on the doctor against the only drawer of the room. He sighs, gets up, his hands becoming fists, and swings on his feet. _John Watson is sorry_.

"John, I don't care what people think. People are boring. They're idiots, distracting sometimes by their stupidity, but in no case should their verities be considered as The Truth. Do you think it's right to take into consideration Anderson's claims when he calls me a freak?"

"No," he answers straight-out. The question was easy; he has no merit.

"So stop this."

"What do you mean _this_?"

"_This_," he repeats, and this time he waves his pale hands in the air to emphasize his words while getting closer to the older man. His forefinger lands on the center of his forehead and pushes. "You're polluting your mind with useless information. Clean up your hard drive and let's move on, shall we?"

Sherlock lowers his hand and fully sees the doctor's face. Pupils slightly flared, deep breaths, noisy swallowing, _John Watson is embarrassed_.

"You can take the bed, I barely sleep anyway."

In three big steps the detective is in the hallway, his coat in one hand, his keys in the other one. He's almost sure John didn't notice his voice was shivering.

* * *

They should have talked about it. They should talk about it. They _have_ to talk about it.

John flips over in the bed for the hundredth time. The bedroom is plunged into darkness; he forgets the green and red tartan plaid on the other side of the bed, the dotted beige wallpaper, and the dark mahogany headboard. He mainly forgets the teddy bear family that is now remaining far, far away from him. It's past midnight and Sherlock still hasn't come back. He didn't go far for sure, he saw him by the window; he was talking on the phone in the park and the car is still here. Maybe then he went to the lake to see the trout reckless enough to come close to the surface. It's not that John is worried, but he thinks about it, and when John thinks about it he doesn't sleep.

The Watson family never encouraged talking as a deadly and peaceful weapon. Like any other northern-London family, they taught their children to gather their emotions and to push them deep down inside themselves into an inaccessible room and to never talk about them anymore. It was the best advice you could give to a soldier and John is fully aware of that: he came back alive from Afghanistan, despite the horrors he saw, felt, touched, or did.

But Sherlock isn't a Middle-Eastern country where two of the greatest nation in the world established themselves with ease, seeking weapons of mass destruction with an oil after-taste. Sherlock's a man, and a man John can't seem to rid himself of. He's not gay, _he is not gay_, he repeats to himself, but there's something about the detective that attracts him, as if gravity suddenly reversed before being materialized into his way-too-tall body.

John hates physics.

* * *

His head on the armrest, feet exceeding from the other half of the sofa, Sherlock examines the crack-free ceiling above him. The shared living-room has no charm, even he can testify to that. Why would you have a television this big and a sofa this small? It's beyond belief. He looks at the chess game on his left and thinks he can bring it back to the bedroom as an excuse to John for his attitude. _Childish_, would say the doctor, _Certainly_, would answer the detective before erasing the boring (but inevitable) conversation copy from his hard drive.

It takes a long time before he realizes the vibration on his torso is coming from his mobile. A call: he winces. A call from Mycroft: he's about to throw up.

"What?"

"_Hello, brother dear, the pleasure of speaking to you is mutual._"

"What do you want?"

"_Why did you stop in Balloch?_"

"John hates driving during the night."

"_But you like it._"

"He doesn't want me to drive."

"_John is a good man._"

Sherlock sighs.

"_Stop rolling your eyes._"

Sherlock immediately stops and closes his eyelids.

"_You could have made the journey in one go. Do you plan to visit every Bed & Breakfast in England?_"

"It's the last stop; we'll be on the island tomorrow."

_"Good. _»

"Even if it's useless."

"_Sherlock..."_

"You're well-placed to know that."

"_John is waiting for you._"

The detective presses his phone in his hand and sighs. Changing the conversation subject is a hateful habit from Mycroft.

"No unkind remark about the double bed?"

The repetitive tone that burns his eardrum is clear: big brother hung up.

The noise behind him is clear: Sherlock just closed the door. He pulls out his shoes in the darkness, slightly hesitates, and John stops his torture.

"You can sleep next to me."

He's convinced the detective is going to make a comment about people, but nothing comes out from this pedantic mouth. Good, because John could have changed his mind with a snap of the tongue. He turns his back on his roommate to give him some privacy to put on some pajamas and murmurs with an already half-asleep voice:

"I left a sleeping pill on the night table for you."

But he doesn't hear the answer, already sleeping, and he's not dreaming about trout at all.

* * *

His eyes open a few hours later. There's a really unpleasant breeze on the bottom of his back. He turns around and sees lying on his side, back to him, Sherlock without any blanket. He pulled it down to their knees and coldness comes back like a nasty slap on the doctor's face. He mumbles, fulminates against this couple issue even if they're not one, and with slowness, pulls back on the blanket. He barely sees anything, but the curtains aren't fully opaque, they let enough light in to help him realize the sleeping pill is gone.

His hand arrives at the level of the youngest's shoulder, on which he leans to whisper.

"I just lifted up the blanket."

The information probably won't arrive to the great big brain, but it seemed wrong not to tell him; as much as looking at the naked shoulder for eighteen seconds seems wrong. John is not sure he's already seen Sherlock in a short-sleeved tee-shirt. This one is ridiculously up, like a sailor showing a lady of pleasure his "_Mom_" tattoo on his right shoulder. And this damn gravity that comes back, against which he can't counter. His hand releases the sheet and lands on the cold skin. Gently, articulation by articulation, right before his palm perfectly fits closed over the rounded shape and his fingers carefully grasp.

_If you fall, I'll catch you, John_, and oh how John is falling right now. He has to leave earth, otherwise the impact would be fatal. He has to visit the moon, away from any gravity. He has to break the contact. But the skin is too soft and the gesture too evident. He lies back on his slide and lets the unwilling hand stay just where it is. His eyes close themselves and his sleep's worth all the gold in the world.

* * *

The next morning the bill is paid without any grimaces from the doctor. But they don't leave. The idea wasn't clearly emit but none of them spoke about car keys, road or GPS. Instead they talk about the lake which the receptionist talked of in glowing terms, and about the little harbor where stocky men with fingers damaged by hooks prepare their fishing rods. Sherlock did try from time to time to explain to John how this one was cheating on his wife, and how much this one won at the lottery without telling his sister, but John simply smiled and asked him to shut up.

Today John smiles a lot and Sherlock likes it. He is not afraid anymore of a golden chipset incorporated into a plastic piece. He doesn't even ask him to see his driving license. They don't speak, in fact, and that is somehow... relaxing. It's good for once, to have some rest, even if his eyes are open, and see and understand everything.

John bought a hot-dog and some chips at the small restaurant from around there, and Sherlock's fingers never stopped stealing those pieces of overly salted potatoes. John always pretended not to see it. Sherlock liked it.

He still has his hand full of salt when he takes his mobile out of his pocket. The vibration came from a text sent by Lestrade, but he only sees one thing.

"It's 3PM, John."

"Already? Shit, we're going to miss the last boat!"

He gobbles up the rest of the reddened bread in his mouth and they run together toward the car, still parked close to the B&B.

"Have you seen anyone catch a trout?"

"The fish aren't here yet; they're a week early," retorts Sherlock while climbing up the wooden stairs, improvised by the locals.

"Oh dear God, it's going to be a shitty contest."

Their giggles are so loud the feathered fauna buzzes off right away.

John took the wheel again, but this time Sherlock didn't say anything, he just opened his lips to indicate the road. They cross the land at full throttle; the doctor forgot about the main-road speed limit. They see dead trees and quite lakes; the car climbs up and down in this valley made of mounts and plains. The sun is lazy; it's there, wrapping them up, but doesn't warm them. Outlandish impressions, rocks and stones overhang some shallow bushes, mountains encircle and threaten them, yet John has never seen something that beautiful. All he knows about England are London and the southern beaches, covert by a few brave British. In the north, however, hides a treasure he's not sure he'll get over one day.

He turns his head and sees the detective is already looking at him. He answers his smile with his own.

"Sherlock, it's..."

"Outstanding, I know."

Because, yes, Sherlock Holmes is incapable of judging a hotel or B&B by its decoration, and even the receptionist's clothing choice, but he knows more than anything the true strength of this place, the beauty of those mountains encircled by vast lakes as calm as they are gloomy. Everything else is so pointless.

Finally, as they're approaching Mallaig, they accelerate, and accelerate again despite the city. The harbor is a few minutes away. Sherlock knows the road by heart, and he guides John as the best wingman ever. They finally arrive, get out of the car, and stand rooted to the spot. The ship is already far away and leaves them behind like completely perfect idiots. It's John that cuts off the awkward silence.

"Well, looks like we're going to sleep in another Bed & Breakfast."

Sherlock doesn't answer. His hands in his pockets, he plays with the sleeping pill.

* * *

The place wasn't too hard to find; a quick glance on TripAdvisor and John guided the both of them on the city's heights. The house is kind of cool, concentrated on two levels, but the view is its real trump. From the shared living-room, you could see the sea and Skye. That damn island where they'll have to go tomorrow. Four days, it took _four days_ for them to get there. It's shameful and John is certain Greg will make fun of them when he arrives. He's occupied on another case; however, he told them he would come. It wasn't necessary, but he insisted.

The owner, William, a thirty-year-old bearded man gives them the Wi-Fi password before their bedroom key. Changing times.

"They only had one room with a double bed..."

"It's okay," says Sherlock with his coat still on his shoulders.

"Do you want to have diner here?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay... I'm going to eat something. Do you want to come with me?"

"I'm going out."

His right hand leaves his pocket to open the door. He turns around toward the doctor.

"Don't wait for me."

But John doesn't know what else to do when Sherlock's away.

* * *

The shared living-room was a good refuge, but the bridge tournament prevented Sherlock from falling all sprawled out on the grey sofa. He's out, on the ground, seated in the recently pruned grass. In front of him there's Skye. It didn't move, didn't change, and will never change. He thinks about all those hours spent on mounts, observing life beneath, all those days spent on rocky beaches, walking along before a neighbor took him back home. There never were many people, but enough to bother him. It's dark now and all he can see are those bright dots along the coast. Tomorrow, they'll be there, but nothing will change, Sherlock knows it. He inspires powerfully and lets himself fall backward. The grass is humid; his black coat mustn't like it. Pity.

The vibration on his chest is bothering him.

"I prefer when you send me texts."

"_I prefer to talk to you via voice. Why are you sleeping in Mallaig?_"

"We missed the last ship."

"_Because you left Balloch at 3PM_."

"We've been held back."

"_By a hot-dog and a fishing contest?_"

"I wanted to see the trout."

"_They won't appear for a week._"

Sherlock opens his eyes, the stars are way too big, bigger than in London. They burn his retinas.

"_You're getting closer to your doctor._"

"He's not _my_ doctor."

"_He's a doctor and he heals you. What more do you want?"_

"I don't want anything_._"

"_But you're thinking about it._"

"You don't know what I'm thinking about."

"_I know exactly what you're thinking about, Sherlock."_

He's not sure if it's a thousandth of a second or minutes that are pulling him apart by his brother's next sentence.

"_He's going to kiss you tonight._"

This time, Sherlock is the one that hangs up.

* * *

When Sherlock closes the door, everything has of course a taste of deja-vu. But at least today they didn't argue. John opens his eyes. Sleep: he thought about it but it never came. In the darkness, he only distinguishes the detective's edges that seem to dance. The clothing touching the ground is the only clue. He must be putting on his pajamas now. He takes care of the coat he's hanging on the peg and finally the bed pitches on the left side. He lies down and John can see his eyes are wide open.

Both of them laid on their sides, facing and looking at each other, John immediately thinks he could warm him up if he's cold. Like a memory call, he raises his hand very slowly to give time to the impetuous mouth to shut him down with a snap of a tongue. He brings it closer to the fragile shoulder and wraps it silently. And still those two astounding blue iris are on him.

_Fucking gravity._

John leans in and lays his lips on Sherlock's. The caress is soft. Slow. Surreal, maybe. The fact remains that it really exists. The contact is strange; John doesn't know what to think about it. So he presses a little bit more to help himself understand. Their noses are pressed against each other, it's painful. None of them has the presence of mind to turn their faces. John doesn't think about it because he's not sure if he should stop everything right now. Does Sherlock not think about it either for the same reason? Or does Sherlock not think about it because he doesn't _know_?

What did the police report say? Oh, right, Moriarty's nicknames. _Johnny Boy_ for him and _the Virgin_ for Sherlock. A man way too disturbed with an obsession for sex; what a pain. But John buries all those noxious details and pushes his lips a little bit more against the ones he refuses to think of as a virgin. It's his tongue that comes to knock over everything, escaping from his will. He wets the closed lips, caresses them lazily, ask them the permission to cross this carnal and emotional gate. The mouth doesn't answer and John sighs, his stomach crushed under a weight way too painful. His hand comes up to the cheek he caresses and as if he found the soundproof words, the lips open and ask for more.

John's tongue, shy but reckless, takes it easy and with it blows away all those things he can't say to him. There's not enough letter combination in this language, in this tongue, to express the inexpressible. Those three days, the trigger call of all that, and Captain John Watson isn't a soldier strong enough to get through without any damages.

He separates their mouths, quits caressing the warm cheek, and opens his eyes. Sherlock never closed them.

* * *

The ship slowly progresses, the island appears, and Sherlock can feel this place's magnetism. He's attracted to it as much as he's rejected. Too many years spent here without feeling something. Because Anderson is wrong, he's always wrong. He thinks Sherlock's emotionless, but face-to-face with his motherland, he's heavy hearted. He doesn't speak and keeps his hands in his pockets. John promised to stand by him on the bench. It's enough for now.

* * *

John's eyes don't know where they're supposed to go. The landscape around them gives him vertigo. Mountains are endless, cliffs are disturbing. The green pastures mix with the cold and grey rock and he doesn't know if he's still on earth anymore. He already hates this island because he knows nothing will be as beautiful as this place. He hates this island because it makes him hate London, and yet, he loves London. They're driving along lakes, small and big, and he knows he could drown in one of them to be sure to never, ever leave this place.

And he can't stop thinking this _is_ where Sherlock grew up, between those lands from another world, from another time. And everything is as beautiful as he is, as tall and extraordinary. Lakes have the color of his eyes, the rocks his skin's coldness. And the wind makes the trees dance thanks to the imaginary melody his violin sings. This genius is from here, from this land where humans are so rare they didn't see anyone, not even a house, for thirty minutes. So John wonders how Sherlock learned to decipher _people_, those he can't stand.

"Where's the body?"

"Still in the morgue."

"Guide me, please," asks in a painful breath John's voice whose hands tighten on the wheel.

The words _on the left, on the right, two miles_, resonate in the car, but they seem to come out from a deep abyss where Sherlock would be stuck, and John refuses to look down to see him so small and vulnerable. He finally pulls over and both of them come out onto the empty street. The morgue is quite new, a small, ridiculous and cold house with grey tiles and a solemn sign to welcome the families. Sherlock is the one that opens the door and comes in first, but he doesn't say a word, so John is the one to go to the reception.

"Hi, I'm John Watson, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes and we're coming for..."

"Oh, yes, of course, they told me you were coming," answers the man seated behind the desk.

He weakly smiles to the doctor and wheels to another small table, thanks to his chair, on which he's looking for something. John turns around to see Sherlock. He contemplates the profile, all his tall body turned to the door at the end of the room, but his hands are still in his pockets.

"Are you okay?"

"It's pointless for us to be here, John."

"Sherlock..."

"No, really, it is. It's false information. We could have sent anybody to notice it's nothing but a misunderstanding."

And Sherlock seems to believe it so much John's soul breaks into pieces. He turns around when he hears his name and sees the receptionist is giving him a notebook and a pen.

"Could you write both of your names and sign, please?"

"Yeah, sure."

He grabs it all, leans in, inspires to give himself some guts, and writes.

Date:

_February 19th._

Visitors:

_John Watson._

_Sherlock Holmes._

Body:

_Mycroft Holmes._

He examines the last line a few necessary seconds to help him realize this is really happening, that they arrived on this damn island to see him laid down on a stainless steel table, grey and immobile, and Sherlock doesn't realize. He gives back the notebook to the receptionist who thanks him with a pale smile, then he turns around from the desk to bring them toward the door Sherlock never stopped looking at.

The hallways are the same as in St. Bart's. He thinks about Molly when he called her four days ago to tell her they had to urgently leave to identify Mycroft's body. He mainly thinks about Gregory, the one that called them. He thinks about the shaking hands when he gave them his car keys. He thinks -and he'll never get rid of this memory- about Sherlock's smug smile, who, placing his hands on his shoulders told him, "My brother isn't dead. This is a case like any other where we'll see the police were wrong, as always."

And that damn smile is still there. Discreet, but there. John would like to rip it off with his own lips.

The room is cold but nobody really cares. The receptionist puts the notebook he keeps against his chest and comes closer to the laid down body still wrapped in a black plastic bag.

"Whenever you want," he warns with a soft voice.

"Whenever _you_ want," retorts Sherlock, squinting, already annoyed by the wait.

The man looks at John who nods at him, so he opens the bag.

The face is the same, undeniably, but all of it looks like an empty shell, a bottomless pit that gives John vertigo. He puts his hand on his face, rubs it, and breathes with difficulty. So here they are, and the police were right, and nothing has ever been so tough. There are tears that are trying to flow but the hardness is so big that all his body refuses any gesture, any expression. His reflexes that got him back from Afghanistan push him to worry about the only thing that really matters:

"Sherlock, are you okay? Do you want to go out?"

"No," he answers with an outraged laugh.

"No, you're not okay, or no, you don't want to go out?"

"No," he repeats, his eyes still attached to his lifeless brother's face.

"Come on, sit down..."

John presses his hand to his shoulder and jumps with surprise when the detective suddenly turns around.

"No, John; no, it's not true! It's a farce, a doppelganger, but it's not _him_!"

His laugh gives John cold sweats.

"Calm down, Sherlock..."

"Oh, I'm perfectly calm!" he shouts as if he's trying to wake up the dead - which is probably his goal. "He is _not_ dead."

"I know it's hard..."

"You know nothing!"

"Sherlock, your nose is bleeding..."

"You know nothing, John! And I know because he, he..."

His voice breaks and his mouth clasps shut. John looks at his face, ribbed by blood and ignored tears. And suddenly the memory of Sherlock's voice in the other bedroom and in the park resonates.

"Who were you talking with, Sherlock? Who were you talking with these past three days?"

The detective turns his back on the scene and leaves the morgue with big steps. All John can see is the black coat floating and the image printed on his retina of Sherlock broken. He follows him, calls him, but nothing seems to stop him. They cross the empty street, come across some house and dive through the fields. It takes several minutes for John to find the courage to rush and take him by the arm.

"What are you hiding from me? It's been four days that we've been ignoring this, but please, talk to me!"

Sherlock vainly tried to wipe the blood with the back of his hand. He looks at the doctor with crazed eyes, pulls out his mobile phone on which he hardly drums.

"You'll understand, John. You want to know who I'm talking to every night? You'll know."

Mycroft's name shows up on the screen and John tries to stop his heart from bleeding a little bit more.

"Sherlock..." he sighs, frowned eyebrows and tensed mouth.

"You're going to talk to him and you'll see that this is not true."

"It's true, Sherlock, and... »

"Talk to him!" screams the detective while pressing the loudspeaker button.

And it's a robotic voice, as cold as their hearts, as cold as the laid down body they just left, that's played in a loop, making both of them dizzy.

"_The mobile number you have called is unassigned. The mobile number you have called is unassigned."_

John looks at him with pallid eyes and whispers:

"Why is your nose bleeding, Sherlock?"

The hand the doctor sinks into the black coat pocket brings out a white powder bag he wished he never saw again.

* * *

Sherlock's phone burns his hand; he drops it, passes his sleeve under his nose to mop up the annoying blood and looks at his feet where the bag John just threw has landed. He refuses to think this is where everything is coming from, because if everything is coming from this, then Mycroft is really laid down on the stainless steel table, and if Mycroft is really laid down on the stainless steel table, then Sherlock is _alone_.

He turns his back and keeps moving, again and again. You can't stop a man going wherever he's going, even if he doesn't know where that is. He recognizes the Waterstein cliffs for loving them so much, years ago. He's on top of one of them now. He sees the lighthouse, far away on his left, but it's not what he's looking for. He keeps moving and his body is stroked by the wind and the distant voice that calls his name.

John Watson is a soldier, the bravest this damn earth has ever known, but to see Sherlock so close to the edge only gives him shivering knees and a dying voice. So he calls and calls again, but the wind brings him back his voice.

John Watson has been scared of heights since he was a little boy. Emptiness only means one thing: the death call; the siphoned life where they're all going to end. His legs aren't useful anymore, so he comes closer to the ground, his hands hold on tight to the humid mud. Sherlock promised he'd catch him if he was falling, so _Sherlock, catch me_.

John Watson holds his breath and swears to God he's going to die right there if the detective takes another step. But he doesn't move.

John Watson understands Sherlock Holmes won't fall, because Sherlock Holmes just wants to look down. It's how Sherlock Holmes works, far away from people, but closer to things, distant from living beings, protected by winds the brave -but not reckless- won't even try to cross.

But John Watson never gives up, ever. He keeps moving, kneels, and his wrists sink in mud. He fights the gust, holds onto rocks and arrives behind the detective. Sherlock turns around when he hears him come, helps him get on his two feet, and John is whiter just by looking beyond the cliff. Sherlock holds on tight to his wrists and harpoons his gaze with his. It's enough to make him forget the rest.

"I am sorry about Mycroft. And I'll be there, for the next days, months, years to come, I'll be there. As a friend, a roommate, a partner or... even more, I don't know how, but I'll be there, with you. For you."

* * *

The hard drive receives a lot of information in one go. The _Mycroft _file is bereaved, black ringed and closed. You can only consult it, you can't add anything, despite what the _Cocaine_ file tried to make Sherlock believe. He wants to delete this file, but it's too big to fit in the trash and he knows he'll need help to get rid of it.

He tightens up on the wrists even stronger because the _John Watson _file is bigger and bigger and Sherlock can't decipher everything in one go. But John crossed the winds and came up on the cliff's edge. So the _John Watson _file deserves another space. Maybe he could split the elements between his head and his heart. It must be possible. He never tried, but for him, he will.

* * *

The pressure on his wrists is stronger and John knows the wind didn't swallow his words this time. Closer to things, they talked for the first time.


End file.
